Captain of All These Men of Death
Chapter 8
2015
Corvus
The midday sunlight shone gently onto the carpet, bathing the living room and an ailing sleuth in a warm hue. In the city proper, those lucky enough to have a moment in their day stole a glance at the fresh blue sky and took a breath of the spring air gusting through the streets. Jackets were gradually becoming lighter, colours brighter and bobble hats less frequent. Bubbling under the surface of London's typical dour expression, an energy was brewing, anticipating those precious few months of summer.
Sherlock pulled his duvet closer around himself. His knees were close to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around his torso in a vain attempt to stay warm. His body felt hot and clammy under his hands, but he was cold. He shivered and sweated, the duvet sticking to him as he curled ever tighter. Sickness pooled in his stomach, gradually developing into full blown nausea as he attempted to keep as still as possible to avoid actually vomiting. Time seemed to stretch and shrink indeterminately - seconds felt like days, each gentle tick of the clock caressing his face as it slid past him, and yet he would find that hours passed in moments. He could feel his arm gradually becoming numb beneath him but was loathe to move it, fearing rejections in ways he couldn't anticipate.
Soon however, the need was too great to ignore, and he gingerly shifted his weight to extract the dead limb. The pain that lanced through the muscle as he attempted to move it was excruciating - a burning, clenching pain that tugged at his skin. He gasped and twisted, jolting his stomach and forcing a coughing fit which doubled him over, his lungs straining to pull in the desperately needed oxygen. He could feel his nausea building and extracted himself from his cocoon, swaying from the change in altitude, cradling his screaming arm and still fighting back coughs as he stumbled to the bathroom and knelt over the toilet to expel the contents of his stomach.
Time slipped past him like water as he waited for the nausea to stop. His body was drained; his limbs ached and the world gently swayed before his eyes. He wasn't sure if he'd make it back to the living room any time soon. 'Should have brought the duvet with you, imbecile.'
The city was whispering to him, enticing him to tread its winding, cryptic streets. To discover the intricacies of its historic past and volatile future, its phenomenal power and crippling weakness. He was fuelled by the smog, fed by the people, sustained by the criminality. He was completely enamoured never able to leave for too long. His skin was hot and slick, his hair damp with sweat. His breath was more laboured than usual. He'd been running. Racing after the iron dusted criminals of the London streets, liaising with the homeless, battling the authority and twisting those in his power around and around his little finger until they bent, body and soul to his will.
He was the city. He was the blackened pavements, the crumbling walls, the worn down fabric on the Jubilee line. He was in the sounds of the road, the slang of the city and the cash passed from hand to hand to fist. He was with each line inhaled, each billowing puff of smoke forced out, each deeply pigmented syringe pushed into a vein. He was pressed tightly, an iron ball in each punch thrown at another. He sloshed over the rims of glasses and hit the cold, rain soaked pavements. He fell blackened from eyes and reddened from noses.
The back of his throat burned and acrid taste filled his mouth as he slid into an abyss of shining white. He shook as he stepped off clifftops, his body spinning like a pinwheel as he fell closer and closer to the rolling, screaming sea below, its icy grey-green arms smacking the edges of the cliff face as he plummeted towards his final demi-
A sharp pain in his head knocked him to, and Sherlock found himself once again draped limply over his toilet, his head having fallen forward and hit the porcelain rim hard. He cracked his eyes open and gingerly lifted his aching head. 'Not good,' Sherlock observed dryly.
He attempted to stand, and found his limbs too weak to move much further than a kneel. 'Extra not good.'
A knock on the door signalled his next patient was waiting outside. John noted off the last name on his list and called them in. A petite elderly lady entered the small office and took the offered chair. "Hello, Dr Watson."
"Hi Mrs Sugden. How are you this afternoon?"
"I've been better, I've been worse," the lady chuckled, dutifully undoing her blouse and allowing John to inspect the healing scar on her shoulder. "Is it healing properly?"
"Perfectly. Let me just change the dressing and you can get on your way again. Have you had any more problems?"
The lady shook her head as John skilfully changed her dressing, making light conversation as he taped it firmly to her pale, age spotted skin. "All done. No more sunbathing without suncream, okay?"
The old lady chuckled at him, her eyes sparkling. "Oh, my husband and I don't do yacht tours around the mediterranean any more. That was for when we were young and beautiful."
John laughed as she pulled the door shut behind her. Mrs Sugden had been a patient at the clinic for years, and was an old favourite for all the doctors working there due to her amiable nature and kind tone. It was a high note to a generally stressful day, though John's mind had been mostly lingering on Sherlock. He was worried, and feared that Sherlock had been hiding the true extent of his symptoms. He packed his bag and left quickly.
John pulled up outside 221B. He shrugged his medical backpack over his shoulder and fished around in his pocket for his keys. Crossing the threshold, he ascended the stairs. "Sherlock?"
Upon hearing no answer, he stepped into the living room, expecting to find him asleep on the sofa, but instead found Sherlock's discarded duvet. A pang of fear shot through John as he stilled, listening for any indication of his friend. "Sherlock?"
A quiet grunt from the bathroom sent John practically running. He found the detective slumped heavily against the wall, one arm resting on the toilet. His skin was pallid, his cheeks flushed, his hair slick with sweat. His clothes were damp, clinging to his limbs. John crouched down next to the man, face marred with worry as he swept his hair off his sweaty forehead and revealed a purpling bruise.
"Sherlock, come on mate, I need you to wake up for me."
Sherlock shifted, his hand flopping off the rim of the toilet. One eye cracked open, squinting against the light. "John?"
"Yeah, it's me. Wake up."
John helped Sherlock upright, leaning him back against the wall as he rummaged through his bag. "How long have you been here?"
"Um…" Sherlock mumbled, before John put a thermometer in his mouth.
"Sherlock, you have a temperature of 38.5!"
The sleuth grunted, his voice croaky. "It must have gone down."
"Down?!" John balked, his bright blue eyes catching Sherlock's.
"I suspect my temperature reached around 39 when I started becoming delirious."
"What?! Why didn't you call me?" A hand quickly found the bruise again, John's thumb brushing gently across the purpled skin.
"You were busy."
"That's never stopped you before." There was a pause as Sherlock looked away, a little sheepish.
"How did you get this?" John asked quietly.
"I hit my head on the rim of the toilet."
John sighed, eyeing Sherlock as he unsuccessfully attempted to hide his trembling frame from the doctor. "Stop, Sherlock."
A long pause stretched between them before Sherlock let out a strangled sigh and allowed his head to fall back against the wall. He relaxed his limbs, the feverish shaking increasing, his brow knotted with discomfort. He looked over to John, who was studying him intently.
"John, help me please. I can't get back to the sofa." They both pretended not to notice the crack in Sherlock's voice.
John nodded, pulling his arm over his shoulder and allowing Sherlock to lean on him as they made their way slowly back to the living room. The movement triggered a long coughing fit. John's firm hand on Sherlock's shoulder was gone for only a moment, a glass of water and a couple of tablets pressed gently into his hand as he waited for the dizziness to clear. The water felt like velvet down his parched throat.
John sat down next to him. "Why were you in the bathroom?"
Sherlock mumbled, all his energy gone after the strain of coughing. "Vomited."
"More than once?"
A small nod. John placed the pulse oxygen monitor back on Sherlock's finger and took his blood pressure. "How much water have you drunk today?"
The noncommittal shrug was all John needed. "This isn't good enough. You're sweating through your clothes. You need water, Sherlock. You must look after yourself. TB isn't like the flu. You don't get better after a couple of days. You're in for the long-haul."
John let the silence hang between them as he watched the pulse oxygen monitor fluctuate. "We will have Mrs Hudson's results the day after tomorrow, and I've got to test Mary this evening."
Sherlock's eyes darted back to John's. "Mary?"
"She's been within close proximity to you as well, Sherlock. It's unlikely because she's a nurse, but I'm not going to take any risks."
Sherlock watched as worry flashed through John's eyes, his hands unconsciously clenching into fists on his lap. He couldn't help the guilt.
"I'm sorry, John."
"It's not your fault, Sherlock. Just focus on getting better. I'll deal with everything else." There was a pause, as John considered something for a moment. "Have you told Mycroft?"
Sherlock scoffed. "No, but he knows."
"I'm sure, but don't you think you should tell him anyway?"
The withering look Sherlock shot John made him laugh as he stood. "Just send him a text. I'll get you some clean clothes - wouldn't you prefer to be in bed?"
Sherlock considered for a moment, looking around the room. "Nah, I've got company here." He waved towards his skull.
John pulled out a pair of striped pyjamas that he found buried in the back of a drawer in Sherlock's bedroom. Walking back to the living room, he held them out for Sherlock to inspect. Sherlock's face twisted. "I thought I burned those."
"Obviously not. Present from Mycroft?"
"From my parents, actually."
"Well, they're useful for situations like this one. Put 'em on then."
Sherlock turned away. "John I honestly believed you to be more intelligent than this."
John raised an eyebrow, throwing the pyjamas onto the sleuth. "Compliments, now? You really must be ill." He pottered around the kitchen as Sherlock reluctantly pulled on the offending items. John couldn't help but smirk at the man as he grimaced at himself in the mirror. "Very smart."
"Shut up. Isn't it time for you to go now?"
"Get under that duvet and I will." He bustled around quickly as Sherlock made himself comfortable, placing water, tablets, the television remote, his laptop, a thermometer and a large mixing bowl on the coffee table next to the sleuth. "Right then. I've got to go. Text me if you start to feel ill again, and don't let yourself suffer any more than you need to. You hear me?"
"Yes mother."
"Bye Sherlock. I'll see you tomorrow."
Sherlock huffed as he heard the front door to 221B clack shut.
The title of this chapter means The Raven, which was of course the title of Edgar Allen Poe's famous poem, inspired by the tragic death of his wife to Tuberculosis. She was 24.
I am very sorry for the slowest update in history ever ;-;
I hope this chappy full of Sherlock whump makes up for it a bit. I would say I will update soon, but I don't want to get anyone's hopes up haha I'm a fail
HOWEVER
I INTEND TO FINISH THIS STORY IF IT TAKES ME MY ENTIRE LIFE
Thanks for reading! I love reviews. They make me smile.